


First Impressions

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://fox-rain.org/">fox rain</a> over on tumblr, who came up with the following:</p><p>Aramis has a perfect online profile and lots of cool photos and he is very chatty and cool and flirty and calling everyone “honey” and “love” online. He meets Porthos, and when they meet (FINALLY) in person, it is very different from their online chats. Porthos is the same, he is serious, level-headed and very patient. And gorgeous.</p><p>But Aramis is different. He is very boisterous and outspoken and bold online. But in person he is SHY. He is suddenly silent and somewhat even scared because at this point he can’t hide behind smiley faces and flirting and everything and it becomes more real. And Porthos is confused. He didn’t expect that. He expected to be the one who would be listening while Aramis did all the talking and flirting but it turns out that now Porthos has to do that and Aramis is just sitting there looking somewhat terrified.</p><p>Porthos is confused but finds this unexpectedly timid Aramis quite adorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something to keep you all afloat until I've beaten the first chapter of _Sleeping Dogs_ into submission.

This is. This is highly problematic. This wasn’t the plan. At all. The plan had been to be suave and in control. To be charming.

Not this blushing, blubbering mess.

Aramis had thought he’d grown out of his blushy-maiden phase. It’s been years since he’s last felt so ... so … stupid, tingly … and a bit too hot. Not in the good way.

Porthos is definitely too hot, and entirely in the good way. Aramis almost wishes he’d agreed to this date back in January when they’d have met inside a bar or restaurant, and Porthos would have been properly clothed. Instead of this. This farce of a date Porthos has shown up to in jeans and a t-shirt, with his smile and his arms – oh God, his arms – and an actual bouquet of flowers that now lies wilting on the table between them.

They are sitting outside a little café, the May sun smiles down on them, and Aramis wants to crawl under the table and hide until his life is over. He has no idea what to say. They’ve been chatting for months, online, he knows Porthos, he considers him his friend even, but now that he’s sitting opposite him, Aramis suddenly remembers why he’s always sucked at dating outside of the internet. He fails at first meetings. He fails at them so hard.

So far Porthos has not given up, but it cannot be long before Aramis’ monosyllabic answers will exasperate and drive him away. He wouldn’t be the first to just get up and leave (wouldn’t be the first to suggest they just stop with the niceties and go to a motel instead, but Porthos would never do that). Aramis looks over the table at him, manages to look at Porthos’ face for the first time since they sat down – instead of staring at the ground, or the flowers (so pretty), or his rapidly cooling coffee – and … Porthos is smiling at him. It is a small smile, soft and warm, and Aramis has to ball his hands to fists to fight the sudden longing pulling at them. He cannot possibly reach out and touch Porthos the way he wants to, even if he’s always been better at communicating his feelings by touch instead of words.

(He’s good with words, too, after the first hurdle, but touch is far more important to him.)

“So,” Porthos says, holding Aramis’ gaze easily, “you’re a bit unexpected.”

Aramis feels the blood rise to his cheeks and hastily stares down at his lap. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a feeble, weak sound like that of a frightened animal, and he closes his eyes in sudden shame. God, Porthos must think him so stupid.

“See, from the way you expressed yourself online, I’d assumed I wouldn’t have to do much talkin’ today,” Porthos says, his voice a pleasant, deep rumble, warm and amused, not at all condescending.

Aramis takes a careful peek at him. Porthos is still smiling, and GOD, Aramis wants to lick his dimples.

“I like this, too,” Porthos tells him, and he leans forward in his chair, puts his elbows on the table. Aramis remembers how he hugged him when he arrived, how it felt to be held by those arms, and he bites his lip.

“So,” Porthos says again, and his smile widens a bit, turns into a grin. “Did your sisters dress you up the way they threatened? If they did, they did a good job.”

Aramis does his best to keep the startled-doe-noise inside his throat this time, and gives a trembling smile back. “Ah, no. I managed all by myself. Thank you.”

Porthos dimples at him, and Aramis feels like he’s about to combust out of his chair.

“Want me to tell you a story?” Porthos asks, and Aramis nods, a bit befuddled, but willing, nevertheless. (He is so willing, oh God.)

So Porthos starts to talk, tells Aramis a long, winding tale of how he got up this morning, far too early, because he was actually rather excited to meet Aramis, how he cleaned his whole apartment because he had so much time to kill, and purchased a potted plant in a sudden fit of home improvement. Aramis listens to him, rapt, stares at Porthos’ face and the way he seems to use his whole body to illustrate his story, and he knows he will have to find a way to bottle that voice for later when Porthos has decided that he’s had enough of this nonsense and never wants to see him again.

Then Porthos stops, suddenly, looks up at the waitress who has appeared at their table with fresh coffee and chocolate cake. He treats her to his dazzling smile, and she winks back, puts the cake down and refills their cups. “Enjoy,” she says, and goes back inside.

Aramis blinks at Porthos, blinks down at the cake – Porthos’ favourite, and, coincidentally, Aramis’, too – and then once more at Porthos. “When did you order that?”

“I didn’t,” Porthos says. “That was my friend Alice. This is her café. Seems she wanted to, eh, contribute.”

Aramis, although it should be impossible at this point, blushes. “She knows?”

Porthos tilts his head. “She has eyes. I expect she saw the flowers, and guessed the rest. She knows that I’ve been chatting with someone online for months now, too. Does it bother you?”

Aramis flounders for an answer. The very fact that Porthos has asked him out to somewhere he is known does strange things to his heart. That there is now someone who knows, someone close to Porthos, someone who will maybe ask him questions later –

“Aramis?” Porthos asks, voice worried, and he reaches out and puts his hand over Aramis’ on the table, warm and gentle, “are you alright?”

Just like that, Aramis is fine. He’s great. Perfect. “I’m … not good at first dates,” he blurts.

Porthos chuckles. “I think you’re doin’ great. Look at you – holdin’ hands already.”

He brushes his thumb over the back of Aramis’ hand, and Aramis entwines their fingers, more or less on autopilot. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Eh? You like to hold hands, you told me,” Porthos says, the smile thick in his voice.

That was months ago, Aramis realizes. He shyly looks up. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Porthos replies. “Eat your cake. Alice is watching.”

Aramis blushes, and reaches for his fork with his free hand. “She is?”

“Takin’ pictures, even,” Porthos grins. “She’s gonna convince everyone that her cake was vital to the success of our first date.”

Aramis feels his mouth pull into a smile, and he takes a bite of the cake, closes his eyes in sudden bliss. “Nhmmm.”

“Yeah,” Porthos chuckles, “she’ll probably be right about her cake, too.”

Aramis fails quite spectacularly to contain an orgasmic moan, and suddenly Porthos’ grip on his hand is a little firmer. “Eh, I didn’t expect to hear such noises on our first date, either.”

Aramis blushes once more, but when he opens his eyes, they are full of mirth. “You keep saying first – you … you want a second?”

Porthos treats him to a fond grin. “I’m always one for seconds – and thirds, and fourths.”

Aramis grins down at his cake, and his blush is spreading down his neck and chest now.

Porthos is still holding his hand.

“Want to go somewhere else when you’ve eaten your cake?” Porthos asks him, careful and tentative, and Aramis nods, looks at him through his lashes. “I’d … I’d like to see that potted plant of yours.”

Porthos looks delighted. “Yeah, alright. I’d love to take you home.”

There’s no innuendo at all in his voice, but Aramis goes hot all over nevertheless. “Yes,” he mumbles, his fingers so secure in Porthos’ grip, “I’d like that, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

They take a walk through the park once they have finished their cake. Porthos continues his story from before, makes Aramis laugh with his theatrics and a suspiciously long list of items he allegedly unearthed from beneath the sofa when he cleaned his apartment earlier. Aramis feels strangely safe with him. Porthos feels familiar and secure, like an item of clothing you find at the back of the wardrobe. You haven’t worn it in months, but it still fits, still gives you the same sense of comfort it always did.

Aramis has never felt like that with anyone. He carries the bouquet of flowers Porthos brought him, looks down at it occasionally, and starts to grin giddily every single time. They are not holding hands anymore, but Porthos walks so close to him that it barely makes a difference. He smells nice, Aramis realizes, earthy and fresh, and he is tempted to close his eyes and bury his nose at the hem of Porthos’ t-shirt, brush a few kisses to the hollow of his throat while he’s at it.

But this is their first date, and Aramis is still somewhat nervous, so he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head to look at Porthos’ face. He looks a bit different in person than he does on the photos he posted online – people always do – but Aramis cannot claim to be disappointed. Porthos’ nose alone could launch a thousand ships. It’s just so … it’s cute, ok, it’s really freaking cute, and in combination with the scar over Porthos’ left eye it’s … the thing is, Porthos just has a really good face. Aramis has a really hard time trying not to stare at his mouth. He manages only because of the curls. CURLS.

“You don’t seem to be listenin’ anymore.”

Aramis needs a moment to filter that sentence and grasp its meaning; when he stares up at Porthos, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Porthos is grinning again. Dimples. Urgh. Porthos’ eyes are warm, full of gentle amusement, and Aramis licks his lips and tries to find his words. Pretty much any would do right now.

Porthos keeps grinning at him. “Now, I know that I’m not borin’ you, so what is it that has caught your attention, eh? I wanna know what I’m up against.”

“I’m,” Aramis starts, and he’s so proud that he got out a proper word that he doesn’t pay attention to what’s actually coming out of his mouth, “I’m just looking at you.”

Porthos blinks at him, and Aramis’ brain registers what has just been said. By him. Out loud.

He clears his throat. As does Porthos.

“See, this is our first date,” Porthos says, and his voice is a bit rough, like honey over gravel, and God, that does things to Aramis’ body, makes him feel hot and tingly. “So I’m really tryin’ my best to behave myself and be a proper gentleman, but I really wanna kiss you right now.”

Aramis is vaguely aware that they are in public. This is a public park and there might be other people with dogs and frisbees, possibly even children, enjoying this fine May day. He does not care. At all.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is very quiet, far too soft, “yes, that would be –“

Nice, he wants to say. But Porthos has already stepped in front of him, lowered his head and brushed his lips to Aramis’. For one ridiculous, perfect moment Aramis is entirely caught up in the way Porthos’ nose just squishes out of the way of their kiss. He knew it was a good nose. Then his senses take note of what is happening: of Porthos’ heat taking over and surrounding him in a gentle embrace, of Porthos’ lips against his, soft and sweet. Aramis makes a tiny noise of bliss, and then it is already over, Porthos pulling back with closed eyes and a content smile hovering around his mouth.

Aramis lifts his free hand and grips the front of Porthos’ t-shirt, rests his forehead against Porthos’ chest. “Oh,” he says.

Because he should not feel this weak after a mere kiss – an innocent kiss, too, lips barely opened, with only their breath mingling.

“Yeah,” Porthos says above him, and reaches up with his right to stroke his fingers through Aramis’ hair. His voice sounds even rougher than before. Aramis feels tempted to moan.

“Potted plant,” he gets out. “I want to see it.”

“That’s better not a euphemism,” Porthos rumbles. “This is our first date after all.”

Aramis breaks down in giggles and clings to him a bit harder, and Porthos hugs him to his chest, warm and safe and so unbelievably nice. Aramis has always thought that nice was kind of a wishy-washy word, but Porthos … Porthos is just that. Nice. He also gives really great hugs.

“Alright then,” Porthos says. “Let’s get you home. People are startin’ to look at us funny – jealous buggers.”

Aramis grins against his chest, and then he straightens, receives a kiss to the tip of his nose. Oh God.

“Come on then,” Porthos murmurs, frees himself from Aramis’ grip on his t-shirt and takes his hand into his. “I’ve got some greenery to show you.”


	3. Chapter 3

They take a short-cut to Porthos’ apartment. Meaning they leave the park through the north entrance, jump a hedge, cross the street, and arrive at their destination.

“Ah, this is nice,” Aramis says while looking up at the building. He is still holding his flowers, his other hand once more secure in Porthos’ while he unlocks the door with his free one. “You never told me you live in such a … wealthy neighbourhood.”

“It’s really my flat-mate’s doin’,” Porthos says quietly, and pulls Aramis through the huge brass-clad door with him. “His family’s bloody rich, and this whole house is sort of an heirloom. I mean, his grandparents are still alive and well, but they made him take it nevertheless. His grandma threatened tears and everythin’. It was ugly.”

Ah yes. The elusive flat-mate. Porthos hasn’t talked about him much during their online chats, arguing that Athos cherishes his privacy. Now Aramis is all agog to learn more, naturally. “Is he home?”

“Nah, he’s on holiday at a friend’s. Shouldn’t be home for another week, as far as I know.” Porthos turns his head to grin at Aramis while he pulls him into the elevator. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

The unspoken promise behind the words makes Aramis’ stomach flutter with excitement, and he watches Porthos push the button for the penthouse, and bites his lip. Naturally. Thank the Lord his fear of heights doesn’t make itself known in elevators anymore. … Certainly not in elevators this nice. It’s an old house and therefore an old elevator, but well maintained. Everything is clean and polished and … well, rich. Porthos doesn’t look out of place in this environment, so Aramis doesn’t feel any qualms about it either. But he is rather apprehensive about Athos the flat-mate now. Rich people can be so … arrogant. On the other hand Aramis cannot imagine Porthos being friends with someone like that, so Aramis will have to wait.

Oh God, Porthos wants him to meet his flatmate. This is. Well. Of course, Aramis had hoped for such an outcome when he agreed to a date, but still. This is a person Porthos has been living with for years now. They’ve known each other forever, even though Porthos has been vague as to how. According to Porthos, Athos inflicted a bloody nose on one of their schoolmates when they were seven, because that schoolmate had made the suggestion Porthos should “go back to his people”.

So. Rather a magnificent personage, certainly. Sadly, Aramis fails at meeting his dates’ friends for the first time just as much as he fails on the first dates themselves. It’s going to be a catastrophe. The elevator dings, and its doors open with a happy clonking noise, entirely oblivious to Aramis’ dramatic mood.

“Come on then,” Porthos says gently, evidently not quite as oblivious as the elevator, “time to meet Bert.”

Aramis blinks at him. “I thought his name is Athos. And that he isn’t home.”

Porthos grins. “I’m referrin’ to my benjaminus ficus.”

Aramis chuckles and relaxes a bit. “I might’ve known.”

“Yes,” Porthos agrees and pulls him down a magnificent hallway, over lush, expensive carpet that softens their steps, “you might’ve.”

He unlocks another door, white with a brass knob, and steps into a generous loft, its huge windows looking out over the park once the corner from the open hallway has been turned. Aramis is so overwhelmed by the sheer size of it that he does not immediately perceive the kitchen area and its … occupant. Then he does. There appears to be a mountain man in the kitchen. Aramis himself is maintaining a beard, as is Porthos, but the overabundance of facial hair the stranger is sporting is very distracting.

Aramis stares at the man, takes in the reddish beard and sun-bleached brown hair and the maroon coloured cardigan, and then Porthos makes a happy growling noise beside him and lets go of his hand to step forward and envelop this kitchen-intruder in an enormous hug. “You’re early!”

No mountain man then, but Athos. Aramis freezes where he stands, and his eyes widen. Athos allows himself to be hugged, and when he opens his mouth, a clear, posh voice comes out, much at odds with his appearance. “Ninon’s parents came for a visit. They kept dropping the m-word despite the fact their daughter and I never dated. I fled.”

Porthos chuckles and hugs him again. “You mean she kicked you out so you wouldn’t witness her killin’ ‘em.”

“Yes,” Athos admits, and his mouth pulls into a little smile, “she did.”

He looks over Porthos’ shoulder at Aramis, and his expression seems to lose all warmth. “And who is this?”

Aramis thinks that this must be what a heart attack feels like.

Athos has very green, very cool eyes, and the way they are looking at him now, Aramis cannot cling to the illusion that he is in any way welcome in this flat right now.

“This,” Porthos says, “is Aramis. I showed you his pictures. Be nice now, you’re doin’ that thing again where you’re frightenin’ the innocent with your restin’ face.”

The left corner of Athos' mouth twitches. “Is he so easily frightened then? His online conversation gave a rather different impression.” He is looking at Aramis the whole time he is speaking, and his voice is almost without inflection, merely stating a fact, but Aramis cannot keep himself from thinking that Athos does not like his online persona. At all.

“He’s been a nervous little bunny all afternoon. It took Alice’s cake for him to relax a bit, and you’ll scare him away any second now,” Porthos says, mock-earnest, and just like that, the warmth is back in Athos’ eyes.

“How is Alice?”

“Meddlin’. Hasn’t she sent you pictures yet?”

“I haven’t turned my phone on since I landed.” With that he steps forward and offers Aramis his hand. “I apologize. I should introduce myself properly, I suppose, since this brute has forgotten his manners.” Porthos makes spluttering noises, and Aramis automatically takes Athos’ hand, pleasantly surprised by the warm, firm grip he receives. “I am Athos de la Fère.”

Aramis is aware that this would be an opportune moment to open his mouth and speak, but all he manages is a wide-eyed stare of despair. His brain chooses this moment to notice that Athos has freckles. Quite a lot of them, apparently. Which is not helping him right now.

Athos blinks at him, and tilts his head, and then he smiles at Aramis. “So. Porthos has not been exaggerating matters. Shall I make coffee, or take myself off altogether?”

“Coffee,” Aramis blurts, because the last thing he wants to do is drive Athos out of his own apartment. “Please.”

Athos smiles again, and the laughter-lines in the corners of his eyes are almost as good as Porthos’. Aramis understands perfectly why they are friends.

“Very well then,” Athos says, releases Aramis’ hand, and gently takes his wilting flowers from him, “I will put these into a vase.” He turns his head to look at Porthos. “By the way – have you been stress-shopping again?”

Porthos grins. “You found Bert?”

Athos huffs. “How could I not. He is almost as tall as you are.”

“Now that’s exaggeratin’ matters,” Porthos grins. “Come on Aramis, I promised you an introduction.” He takes Aramis by the hand, thus offering solely needed warmth and steadiness, and addresses Athos once more, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, go ahead, I’m not working on anything right now anyway.” Athos has already stepped over to the kitchen unit, put the flowers into water, and is busy with a silver can of coffee powder and a complicated looking coffee maker.

“He paints, you know,” Porthos tells Aramis in a quiet voice, grinning fondly, as he pulls him down the hallway and towards the last door on the left, “and he doesn’t particularly like people lookin’ at his pictures before they’re finished.”

“I understand that,” Aramis answers, just as quietly. “You put Bert in his studio, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, opening the door to a sunlit corner apartment ideal for painting. “Sometimes he’s in here for hours, so I wanted Bert to keep him company.”

Aramis smiles and nods to himself, and then steps over to the tall plant. “Did you lug him up here all by yourself?”

“Eh, I’m a big guy,” Porthos replies, sounding bashful, “it wasn’t a problem.”

Aramis finds himself staring at Porthos’ arms again, and he blushes. “Ah. Yes. You … are.”

Porthos grins at him. “Are you gonna faint when I kiss you again?”

Aramis immediately steps in front of him, clings to his t-shirt, “No, no I don’t think so.”

Porthos chuckles and dips his head, brushes his mouth to Aramis’.

When they step back into the main apartment three minutes later, Athos has put a cookie jar on the table, and the coffee maker on the stove is starting to give off a rather delicious smell.

Porthos gestures to the cookies and whispers, “That means he likes you.”

Aramis automatically glances over to Athos, insecure and almost frightened, and finds that Athos looking at him, an almost-smile on his face. “He is quite right.”

Aramis believes him instantly, almost despite himself. He is a rather good judge of character, and Athos does not seem to be someone who lies. Ever.


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos gently pushes Aramis towards the sofa, a monstrosity clad in chocolate brown leather, and urges him to sit. Aramis goes down without a fight, and manages to relax into the soft leather, mostly because Porthos sits down right next to him, close enough for Aramis to leech his warmth. It’s a warm day, the big windows looking out to the south catching all the sun they possibly could, but if Aramis wasn’t still feeling somewhat shy, he would crawl into Porthos’ lap trying to get still closer to him, to get more of his warmth.

Aramis has always been like this, tactile and somewhat blind to people’s boundaries, but he thinks Porthos would actually let him – would welcome it, even. But this is their first date, and they are not alone. Athos does not look like someone who cherishes public displays of affection. He looks more like the type of person who would handle such displays by breaking them up with a squirt gun. Aramis watches him preparing their coffee, bringing out three mugs from a kitchen cabinet and heating a can of milk on the stove. There is a calm poise to Athos, as though there was a spring inside him, tightly wound, waiting to be released. His movements are fluid and unhurried, but Aramis believes that if necessary Athos could spring into action at a moment’s notice, and lose none of his precision when forced into haste.

“Now, is it the cardigan that has caught your attention, or his lack of a haircut?” Porthos murmurs next to him. “The cardigan’s my fault, I fear, but he grows that pelt all by himself.” He raises his voice when Aramis doesn’t answer, but instead merely blushes and stares down into his lap. “Eh, Athos, you’re in dire need of a shearing!”

The coffee maker whistles and proclaims it has done its work, and Athos takes it off the stove and puts it to the side for a moment. “Yes, yes. You can do that later if it offends you so much.”

“But you know I’m rubbish at that,” Porthos grins. “On the other hand, it can’t get any worse, can it now?”

Athos side-eyes him in a way that upsets Aramis’ fragile calm and flusters him into speaking. “I could do it!” he blurts. “I – I mean, ah –“ He flounders, and his voice subsides in a way that suggests it took itself off to hide beneath the sofa.

Athos turns his head to look at him, and Aramis quakes inwardly, but Athos is smiling at him again, “I would not put you to the trouble, Aramis. This is still a date, is it not?”

With that he turns away again and pours the coffee into the mugs he has lined up on the kitchen counter, and Porthos puts his hand on Aramis’ knee, “You’re a hairdresser?”

They’ve never discussed what they do for a living, have set this rule right in the beginning of their online correspondence – wanted to get to know each other for who they are, not what they do. Aramis’ mouth pulls into a little smile. “My eldest sister is, and she taught me a bit. I’m actually more of a tailor.”

“Oh, that must be nice,” Porthos says, making none of the comments Aramis usually gets when revealing his profession. “No wonder you’re dressed so fine.”

Aramis is wearing jeans and a shirt that fits him rather well, due to his ability with a sewing machine, and he blushes. “Thank you.”

He looks up nervously when Athos is advancing, bearing two cups of coffee, and then hastily looks down at his lap again.

“Have a cookie,” Athos tells him in his smooth, earnest voice, “and please relax. I am not going to bite you, despite outward appearances.” There is silence for a moment, and then he speaks again. “Even if I tried, I am rather sure Porthos would protect you.”

“Heh, that I would,” Porthos agrees, and gently squeezes Aramis’ knee. He leans forward to get a cookie out of the jar and hands it to Aramis who accepts it with mute gratitude. He likes these two men so much that he is desperate to be liked by them in turn, and thus frozen into uselessness. Athos has gone back to the kitchen area to retrieve the third cup of coffee, and sits down across from them on a very comfortable looking armchair once it is in his possession. “You are sure you want me to stick around, Aramis? Would this not be easier for you if it was just Porthos?”

“Please stay,” Aramis gets out, “it … it would be the same the next time we meet, and I want … I need …”

“I understand,” Athos says quietly. “I will stay then.”

Aramis relaxes a bit, and eats his cookie. It is a good cookie. He hums happily. Athos lets out a gentle huff. “I believe this would be the right moment for one of your stories, Porthos. Did you tell him how we met? That one is always a crowd-pleaser.”

Aramis turns his head towards Porthos eagerly, this being precisely the information he craves most. Porthos chuckles and grins at him. “Go ahead then, Athos. Tell him. It’s your story, too – and you need to tell the start.”

Athos sighs as though Porthos is asking some intolerable hardship of him. “Does he know?” he asks then, his voice surprisingly tentative, and Porthos sobers for a moment.

“Yeah, he does, actually.” He smiles at Aramis. “Remember how I told you that I spend the first few years of my life growin’ up in an orphanage?”

Aramis nods, his eyes slightly wider than before. Of course he remembers. He remembers everything Porthos told him. He is at a loss about what to say, and Porthos shoots a glance at Athos. “There. Now you.”

Athos sighs again. “Very well then. I assume Porthos has already told you that my family owns this building?”

Aramis nods once more in confirmation, and Athos continues. “My family is, to put it mildly, disgustingly rich. So my Grandmother has always, like her mother before her, involved herself in numerous charities. She also became patroness of a certain orphanage at one point. You see where this is going.”

Aramis nods, smiling faintly.

“When I was about five,” Athos says, “my mother took me to that orphanage on one of her visits. I was not a happy boy that day. My younger brother was about a month old then, and I didn’t yet know what to make of him.”

“He was a grumpy little bugger,” Porthos chimes in, grinning happily, and Athos huffs.

“Possibly, yes.”

“What do you mean, possibly, I was there,” Porthos says, a delighted sparkle in his eyes. “He gave his Mom the slip and tried to hide himself in my room, where I was sittin’ with a cold, just about as grumpy as him, readin’.”

“He looked to be about three,” Athos drawls, “so I was naturally suspicious to see him with a book.”

“Late bloomer,” Porthos supplies, and a fond smile glides over Athos’ features.

“Yes. So I went over to him, in a rare fit of curiosity, and asked him what he was reading.”

Porthos stretches and puts his arm around Aramis’ shoulders, drawing him closer to his body. “His Mother found ‘im in my room three hours later, curled up next to me on the bed, huggin’ my teddy bear to his chest, fast asleep. She swears to this day she’d never seen him that relaxed.”

“According to my parents, I was rather adamant to visit the orphanage again the next day,” Athos says dryly. “I wanted to get back to that teddy bear, obviously.”

Porthos’ grin looks impossibly fond, and Aramis finds himself mirroring it. “What book were you reading?”

“The Little Prince,” Porthos says, his voice sounding the warmest Aramis has heard it so far, and the way he is looking at Athos tells Aramis everything he needs to know about the depth of their friendship. He feels warm inside, can feel the bond between them as though it was a physical thing, and much of his nervousness disperses. He leans forward to get his coffee mug off the table, and notices for the first time that Athos has poured him a milk-leaf into it, surprisingly precise. 

The discovery makes him hesitate for a moment, but then Porthos’ hand grips his shoulder and squeezes it encouragingly. “Go ahead. Best coffee in town. And don’t tell Alice I said that.”

“Never,” Aramis promises solemnly, and takes a sip. The orgasmic moan escaping him as a result has Athos lift one brow in silent appreciation. Aramis colours slightly. “Sorry.”

Athos’ face remains the way it is, but his voice sounds friendly enough. “No, no, by all means – let it out. I take it as a compliment.”

“As you should,” Aramis tells him fervently. “This is – this coffee –“

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Porthos says gleefully. “He’s a horrible cook, but his coffee is the best there is – spoils you for everythin’ else, really.”

“Well,” Athos drawls, “Aramis is welcome to return and sample it whenever he wants.”


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis is terribly comfortable. The couch is giving its best to eat him, Athos’ coffee is delicious, as are his cookies, and Porthos is cuddling him in a manner that is both soothing and just plain glorious. The two of them seem to be fine with Aramis keeping quiet while Porthos regales Athos with the titbits Aramis let fall about his family during their online correspondence: about his three sisters and four aunts and his lovely dragon of a grandmother.

Athos listens to him with a smile, gently plucks some words out of Aramis by asking for details, and pays him back by relating stories from Porthos’ and his childhood.

“My parents had to get me my own Nanny because I wanted to go to the orphanage pretty much every day,” he says with a self-depreciating grin, shoulders hunched up, very nearly drowning in his cardigan, “and they did not have the time to take me themselves. But since this was the first time that I had shown even the mildest interest in another child, they humoured me – encouraged me, even – and my mother claims until this day that Porthos was my salvation.” He pauses and directs a wry grin at Aramis. “She is prone to exaggeration, you know.”

Porthos huffs and cuddles Aramis a little closer. “He loves me.”

“Not as much as my mother,” Athos says dryly.

Aramis grins, his shyness forgotten for a moment. “He does seem to be the type mothers take into their hearts. Mine certainly would.”

Porthos brushes a kiss below his ear in thanks, and Aramis blushes furiously. “I – I mean –“

“I believe it is time for another cookie, possibly some cake even,” Athos remarks gently, as though Aramis stammering had not occurred at all. “Shall I put on a kettle of tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Aramis mumbles, still blushing, and looks down into his lap as Athos gets up and walks over towards the kitchen area.

Aramis feels safe with Athos and Porthos, so safe in fact that he frequently forgets that he has met them only today. That is still no excuse to talk to Porthos about his mother in this way, though. They are not an item. Not officially. This is … this is still the testing phase.

“Your face when you start to panic is somethin’ to behold indeed,” Porthos says next to him, “but I really prefer the one where you smile, just a little, and do that bashful little head-dip – there, yes, that’s it, well done.”

He kisses Aramis on the cheek, soft and gentle, and Aramis relaxes into him with a little sigh. “It’s just –“

“You’re nervous, I get it,” Porthos murmurs. “Would it help you when I tell you that I haven’t seen Athos thaw this fast for anyone ever? So you really don’t have to worry as far as we’re concerned – you’ve got us, it’s all good.”

Aramis stares off into nothingness while the words settle into his consciousness.

“Yes, for some reason I seem to be vital to your relationship,” Athos comments from the kitchen, his back to the sofa, his voice as dry as dust, “Porthos has not been shutting up about you for months, by the way. It would be safe to suggest that you ‘had him’ long before today.”

This speech does not seem to embarrass Porthos in the slightest. “Oh, oh, Athos, look, you made him smile properly – that’s the first real smile he’s put on today, and it was all your doin’ … that’s it, I’m callin’ your Mother, she needs to know about this!”

“Please shut up,” Athos says, his voice mild, and turns around. When he sees that Aramis is indeed smiling, he does so too, shakes his head, and turns back towards the stove. “Oh dear.”

Aramis hides his smile against Porthos chest, helpless and entirely unable to get his mouth under control. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Eh? I’ve never ruined anythin’ in my life!” Porthos claims. “Tell him, Athos.”

“Don’t involve me in this,” Athos says languidly, and spoons some tea into a filter after he has put the kettle on to boil – continues to talk without losing a beat, “He does not usually ruin things, Aramis, much less people. You are quite safe.”

Aramis closes his eyes and clings to Porthos, ridiculously happy. He doesn’t know what’s better – the way Porthos just holds him, as though it was a matter of course that Aramis needs to be held right this minute, and petted, and have soothing nonsense mumbled into his hair … or Athos continuing to prepare tea in a manner that suggest he does not mind the lunatic on his couch at all, but is indeed rather fond of him.

The water is boiling when Aramis has managed to calm down and extract himself from Porthos’ t-shirt, and Athos has put cake and some plates on the table, as well as three clean cups.

“Better?” he asks Aramis, his brow raised, and a drawl in his voice, and Aramis manages to smile up at him without the slightest tremble.

“Much.”

He proves this statement by volunteering some conversation over tea without being teased into it, talks about working with his friend Constance in her boutique, and the annoyance that is their current fabrics supplier.

“You haven’t yet told me what you do,” Aramis says once the idiocy of Jacques Bonacieux has been sufficiently expanded upon, and gently tugs on the front of Porthos’ t-shirt.

“Eh, I’m a social worker … well, more of a nanny and teacher nowadays,” Porthos replies, and dips his head in unwonted nervousness. “I work in my old orphanage, take care of the younger kids.”

Aramis has to resist the sudden urge to kiss the very life out of this man.

“That’s nice,” he hears himself say, his voice faint while his brain is busy with imagining Porthos surrounded by children, telling stories, and allowing them to climb all over him.

“You still have not learned to work up to that revelation so it does not break people,” Athos chides from across the table. “Stop looking so anxious, Porthos – he obviously likes the idea.”

“Yes,” Aramis says, still rather faint, “I like it.”

He receives a kiss to the cheek as a gesture of Porthos’ appreciation and suddenly feels somewhat elated at the thought that Athos has not found it necessary to separate them with a squirt gun yet.

“Athos’ family finances us, you see?” Porthos says, “So people can be weird about it when I tell ‘em sometimes, as though I was workin’ for him, and only got the job because of him, which really wasn’t the case … but some people can be so –“ He balls his right hand into a fist, palpably angry all of a sudden, and Athos carefully clears his throat.

“Some people suggested he is my kept boy.”

Aramis stares at him. “Are they still alive?”

Athos’ mouth twitches, clearly appreciative of the underlying suggestion that he either took care of those idiots himself, or has a paid killer at his disposal. “Barely.”

Aramis takes Porthos’ hand into his, and squeezes it soothingly. “You’re obviously great at your job – I’d hire you for your storytelling alone.”

Porthos smiles at him, all dimples and soft brown eyes, and when Aramis looks at Athos again, he is being regarded with fond satisfaction. It makes him proud, that look, warms him from inside just as much as Porthos’ smile does – because he feels like Athos has decided to keep him around, that he is good enough for Porthos, and will not break his heart. Aramis wants to do pretty much everything to that heart, but breaking it is not on the list. He’d sooner kill himself. So would Athos, he’s sure of that – would take care of Aramis himself, paid killer at his disposal or not, and Aramis would not blame him.

Clearly, Porthos is worth killing for.

When the afternoon bleeds into evening, Athos suggest to finally leave them alone, and orders enough take-out for a battalion when they refuse to let him go. It is very late when Aramis finally brings himself to say goodnight, and Porthos immediately offers to bring him home.

“That would be nice,” Aramis says, hunching his shoulders and rubbing his left hand down his right arm, “but it’s really not that far.”

“Please do not be simple,” Athos says from the kitchen where he is putting their used dishes into the dishwasher. “He wants to kiss you good-night without me hanging around.”

Aramis blushes and takes a peek at Porthos, who shrugs and nods, his mouth pulled into a little pout. “He’s not wrong.”

Aramis smiles through his blush. “How could I resist.”

“Heh, not at all,” Porthos says, grinning happily, and turns towards Athos, “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Yes, I was planning on falling into bed as soon as you two are out the door,” Athos drawls, and closes the dishwasher.

“If you disguise yourself as an old man by stealin’ my knitwear, you have to live with me treatin’ you like one,” Porthos teases him, while Aramis steps over into the kitchen area to enfold a startled Athos in a grateful hug.

“It’s been really nice to meet you,” Aramis tells him, squeezing him a little too hard, suddenly panicking that he has overstepped some very spiky boundaries. But then Athos’ arms come up and he hugs him back, and Aramis relaxes against him like a trusting kitten.

“Yes,” Athos says quietly, “it really was very nice meeting you, Aramis.” He rubs his right hand over Aramis’ back before he lets go of him, and offers him a smile. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

 

Aramis falls into bed that night with tingling lips, grinning like a madman. Not only is Porthos really nice, has great arms and a better smile, he is also a really good kisser. He wants to see Aramis again. He told him so between kisses. And since he is a man who is obviously really secure in himself and his emotions, he set the date right away, did neither play it cool nor coy, but invited Aramis over for breakfast for the very next day.

“Let’s make it brunch,” he’d said when Aramis hesitated, “that way we’ll all get some proper sleep, and I can cook for you a bit, yeah? My pancakes are really good.”

“I’d love to,” Aramis had answered, just barely catching himself not to tell Porthos he loved him, too. “Does half past eleven sound good for you?”

“Perfect,” Porthos had said, his mouth pulled into a grin, and his eyes crinkling in the kind of smile that Aramis found increasingly irresistible.

“Perfect,” he is mumbling as he drops off into sleep, still smiling, and his dreams are the best he’s had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm available on [tumblr](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/) if you need me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Chocolate Hercules](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536549) by [musicmillennia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia)




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